Pathetically Poetic
by xo going nowhere
Summary: For his part, he doesn't look surprised to see her. He shouldn't. It's not like this is rare. [brucas]
1. Chapter 1

Nope, not even brucas is safe from my angst. This is set in late season one.

_For Team Supermags, who put up with both my whining and my insecurities. I love you all, and thanks for reading this and voicing that you don't think it's total shit lol._

**Pathetically Poetic**

She hates herself for doing it. But even that self-loathing can't force her feet to stop. They're intent on their destination, and the rest of her is just along for the long, torturous ride. Even as her hand raps away at the wooden door, the skin on her knuckles scraping away gently, she's thinking of a thousand reasons why she should turn around and get the hell out of there. But then the door swings open. It would be easy to keep knocking, her fist could hit his face instead of the door, maybe knock some sense into him. She doesn't, though. She stares straight ahead, almost looking through him, the way he used to do to her. She doesn't see him, not really, not after all this. She tries to pretend her eyes don't fill with tears at the mere sight of him. For his part, he doesn't look surprised to see her. He shouldn't. It's not like this is rare.

"Hey Brooke," he nods, the dim light from the bedroom behind him illuminating his fair hair. It creates a halo of sorts, and she finds the irony tragic. That's what he was supposed to be—heaven-sent. He was supposed to save her. Saint Luke of Tree Hill was supposed to help them all. He wasn't supposed to be her greatest downfall. He wasn't supposed to be a lot of things, though.

His voice always sounds hesitant as he greets her. In her mind, she mocks him for that, hating him just a little bit more. He knows when she's coming, and he knows that she'll be back. Still, she's a little bit grateful for it. If he acts any other way, she'll feel too predictable. Brooke Davis is a lot of things, and she's been called even more, but predictable has never been among them. Pile that on with how pathetic she already feels, and she'll have to find somewhere new to run. Peyton's is out; Tutor Girl's was never in. Brooke Davis is a woman who stands alone, and now it's literally as well as figuratively. She consoles herself, knowing that this time it's not her fault. She didn't push them away, or into each other's arms. They did that all by themselves, and a few times over, from what she's heard.

"Lucas," her voice is strangled in her throat. She hates being here, but she can't bring herself to move. She winces a little at the obvious stench of vodka on her breath, but when she sees he does the same, she smirks a bit. There's nothing happy or playful behind this smirk. It's like none that she's given him before this, but he's slowly growing used to them. It's all that he'll get, so he has to accept.

"Are you okay?" he asks, a concerned frown puckering his forehead. She rolls her eyes, bright green that's stopped blurring. She isn't going to cry over him anymore. If she is, she's going to do it sober and alone. Tonight, wasted and heartbroken, she's with the one responsible for it. She finally feels empty, completely and totally numb, and it leads her back to the one who was never supposed to be part of that. Brooke is done trying to hide her darker parts from Lucas. She wanted him to know _almost_ everything about her, but she can't bring herself to care anymore.

"No," she shakes her head slowly, almost feeling the blood rush from side to side. Everything's so much more intense in his presence. She hates him for that, the one thing that made her love him in the first place.

Like. Like him. Not love him. Like him. She doesn't love liars or frauds or boys who pretend to be completely wonderful when they prove that they're anything but. She doesn't like cheaters. She doesn't even _like_ him anymore. Which does nothing to explain why she's on his doorstep in the middle of the night, but Brooke Davis has never been one for logic.

He pauses for a moment, but she doesn't elaborate. She doesn't have to, really. They were only "them" for a short time, but he can read her with uncanny accuracy. It makes her feel naked before him, much more so than any time she actually was. She doesn't flinch under his stare. It's still relatively early, at least for teens of Tree Hill, but Brooke's tired now. She's weary, and she's got nothing left in her. She's got nothing left to hide. He can stare until the end of time, but right now, there's nothing there for him to find. She doesn't find the thought as depressing as she figured it would be.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks, the quiver of nerves still present in his voice after all this time. It's a pointless question, because they both know where this is going.

"No," she shakes her head vigorously, her long loose hair flying about. A chocolate strand sticks firmly to her glossy lips, as stubborn as the girl herself when she blows at it. On instinct, his large hand reaches out to brush it away. She flinches now, away quickly, before any contact can be made. Another pair of hands made their way through this hair tonight. Tongues had fought viciously, teeth clicked occasionally. He tasted of rum. Her lips still stung.

She never did catch his name.

He steps away, backing slowly into his room, but at an angle that allows for her to slip past him. She does it, of course, just like she always has. But she's careful not to brush up against him, suggestively or even accidentally. Neither could deal with the fall out, and she's not even willing to try.

"Do you, uh, want to sit down?" he gestures awkwardly towards the bed, and her eyes widen just a little bit more. She's shaking her head, even as she plops down. She doesn't want to sit. She doesn't want to be here. There's just nowhere left for her to go, and nothing better for her to do. Her perfectly manicured fingernails play along the fraying edges of his comforter. She likes how nervous she makes him. It's nice to see that she can still affect him, even when she's so untouchable. She's too far gone to be affected by him.

"Are you drunk, Brooke?" he asks with a sigh. She sneers at the condescending tone of his voice. As if Saint Lucas has never been plastered. Nikki knows first hand that that's sure not true. With a smile far too bright to be true, she nods enthusiastically. She doesn't mention that she's not nearly drunk enough to be in his presence, just like he doesn't mention that her smiles never reach her eyes anymore. Those are both obvious statements that are better left unsaid.

With a sigh, she drops further back. Her hair rests on pillows, her hair fanning all about as her eyes droop closed. Subconsciously snuggling closer, her surroundings smell of him, the distinct scent of soap and light traces of cologne that are permanently ingrained in her brain as his. She can tell without looking at him that his eyes are still on her. Her skin crawls, but she does nothing. There's nothing left to do.

The ringing of his cell phone shatters the silence that had dominated them. Her tired eyes fling wide open, but not in surprise. She set all his ring tones for him, personalizing those of her favorite people. This one is Peyton's. If she still felt, this might have hurt. Instead, she stares unblinking at him, and he stares back.

"Your phone is ringing," her voice is flat as she points out the obvious.

"Yeah," he nods, but seems to be having an internal conversation, and she doesn't feel like fighting him for his attention. She doesn't want it anyway. The phone eventually stops ringing, and her eyes fall closed once again.

"Why didn't you answer that?" she questions, her eyes still closed. She doesn't really care what the answer is, and she's not quite sure why she put the question out there in the first place. There's nothing he can say or do to redeem himself, not in her eyes. Brooke's a firm believer in "what's done is done", and this is most definitely done. She's just waiting for it to be over.

"It wasn't important," he says, and one of her green eyes pops open. She stares at him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, before she reminds herself that there is none. They don't mean anything. He doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything.

"It was Peyton," her eye slides closed again, this time to shelter the tear forming there.

"Yeah," he breathes out, and it lingers there. She says nothing to break the silence this time. There's nothing left to say, but she's fairly certain he'll keep trying. She's comforted that he's the predictable one, not her.

"Hey Brooke… I was wrong."

Her eyes shoot open this time, and not out of interest. It's shock this time. She's heard every apology and excuse under the sun from the (former) two most important blondes in her life, but never this. It stirs something in her that she's almost forgotten the feeling of.

"I know," she nods. Their eyes lock in a stare, a familiar occurrence for Brooke and Lucas. Brucas, as she had secretly doodled with lopsided hearts in her notebooks during the long school days. But it was different this time. Not even familiar habits could etch out the guilt on his face or the pain in her eyes. He nods sullenly, and drops down onto the bed as well. She shifts, barely an inch, but relieved by the added distance. It was as close to the flame as she could get without being all consumed.

Brooke was tired of burning.

She was just so tired. It had been a long month, compromised of longer weeks and endless days. She was weary and broken, and all she wanted was to fall asleep for all of eternity. The cruelest trick of all was that she could only find peace with him, the one who'd destroyed it all. And even now, she couldn't sleep, because with him so close, her numbed heart conflicted with her tingling skin. It's this contrast that lets his rough fingers play softly across the smooth skin of her shoulder without protest. Her eyes slide open again, silently, observing him as he observes her. She closes them again as his fingers slide down the straps to her top. When her eyes are closed, they can pretend that its two months earlier, and this still means something. She lets the rest of her clothes fall from her body, kisses him back as his lips touch hers. Her eyes never open, not as she climaxes, not as he grunts out a declaration of love, not as he cuddles around her afterwards. She just lets it happen before she falls into a dreamless sleep, peaceful for the first time in longer than she cares to remember.

It's not because she still loves him, of course. She's just so tired.

* * *

_Now, I'm post-accident and into recovery, and part of that, for me at least, is writing. I'm trying to ease back in before I start updating my stories, so PLEASE review and let me know what you thought of this. I'll love you forever! Thanks for reading-_

_xo Sam_


	2. Chapter 2: Skin

Hey everyone. Because of your wonderful reviews, and the requests to turn it into a longer fic, I thought about it and decided there could be a lot more story to tell.  
Special thanks to Supermags and Ella.

_Pathetically Poetic_

_Chapter Two: Skin_

The bristles slide smoothly across the planes of her face, the brush leaving a trail of pale makeup behind it. Even with the light coloring, she looks almost transparent. It's exactly how she feels, so she figures it's fitting. Casting a disinterested glance at the clock from beneath a fresh coat of black mascara, her eyes have long since lost their sparkle. But nobody mentions it, and she's determined not to spend another moment contemplating it. Brooke Davis has reminded herself not to ever think of _him_ again, and it starts right now.

She can barely breathe in the top she's squeezed herself into, but the man across from her at the bar doesn't seem to mind too much. They never do. He's well into his forties, his hairline receding, probably has a wife, 2.5 kids and a dog named Spot waiting for him at home. She doesn't feel much about that, but Brooke's still got standards. She toasts him with the drink he sent her before turning away. Her feelings on the matter are obvious, and he doesn't come over.

There's a couple cuddling in the corner booth, her age or somewhere around there. She's never seen them before, so it's a guaranteed that they're nobodies. Strange, because the guy's cute in a way that few are. She could tell chickie didn't get out much by how lost she looked as he got up to go to the bathroom. Or maybe that's just the expression she naturally wore. Either way, Brooke hated girls like her. Part of her contemplated screaming "STOP BEING SO FUCKING PATHETIC! HE'S NOT WORTH IT!" The other part considered following the beloved boyfriend into the bathroom to test that theory out. A smirk played across her lips at the thought, as she tossed back the shot in her hand. She's not really sure if it's her fifth or sixth, but she's feeling pretty damn good. Even better, she's feeling nothing at all.

People are sort of staring. People are always looking at her, to her, for her, because she is Brooke Davis. She's the fucking queen of their universes. They always need her, and she sort of thrives on their dependency. It's kind of sick, but when the moral center of your life is a cheating bastard, there aren't many standards to hold yourself too.

A wave of uncontrollable giggles overtakes her when she realizes that she's managed to get completely plastered, and she hasn't spent a dime. People were so easy. The bartender raises a questioning eyebrow in her direction, and she just smiles sweetly in his direction, laughing behind the hand she'd raised to wave. He sighs wearily, and smiles back. He's used to this by now. She's always been a favorite customer of his, and he's so familiar with her in this state that he already knows she's got no family to call. There's a blonde girl (Pam? Patty?) that's been here with her a few times. He knows better than to call her though, judging by the furious glare a patron had received when he asked about her. It was a quickly learned lesson that you don't piss off Brooke Davis. Grabbing her cell off the bar counter, he presses a number on her speed dial and hopes for the best. She doesn't protest. She's off in her own world, an impenetrable glaze formed over her eyes. She wasn't smiling anymore though, merely sitting and staring at a couple in the corner.

"Brooke?" a masculine voice questions after the first ring. He sounded both curious and nervous. The bartender winces, suddenly remembering a little story Brooke had drawled after more than her share of drinks one night. Something about an evil man that didn't deserve her in the first place. Something about an evil blonde bastard who should go fuck himself. Oops.

"No, this isn't Brooke. You have to come get her," he sighs wearily into the phone, casting a sad look over at his favorite customer. He remembered other times when she'd been equally wasted, but then, she'd just been so… _happy_. He could distinctly remember an incident where she'd been fascinated for a good hour over how shiny her own hair was. But now, she just sat, staring as she swirled her finger around in a drink someone else had bought her.

"Where is she? Is she alright?" the man on the other end of the phone sounds anxious, and his questions pour out all at once.

"She's at the Blue Post. Do you know where that is?" he asks, purposely avoiding the second part of his question.

"Yeah, I know the place," the man answers, his voice wry. "I'll be there in five minutes."

The bartender hangs up without as much as a goodbye. If this is the boy that Brooke mentioned, he doesn't deserve that much. She was a little kooky, but it was easy to see that the brunette was an incredible girl. Anyone who could hurt her so badly wasn't worth the breath he'd waste talking to them.

Just as he'd expected, a man flew in through the door in four minutes and thirty seconds. He was tall, quite good looking, blonde and breathless. It took about five seconds for his eyes to find Brooke seated at the bar. The bartender chuckled at the look on his face. You'd be hard pressed to fake a look of love and devotion like the one the boy was currently wearing. He'd seen this same old song and dance many times before. Boy fucks up, girl gets drunk, boy rides to the rescue. It was always the same, but it never got any easier.

"Brooke, are you alright?" Lucas asked, concern radiating from him. She peered up at him, as if seeing him for the first time. It felt like that a lot now. She'd thought she knew him, thought she'd had him all figured out. But she was wrong, so clearly and devastatingly wrong.

"Lucas," she said in acknowledgement, before turning away from him. She could see his flinch out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing. Glancing towards the couple in the corner again, she saw that the girl's eyes hadn't even strayed over here. It was pretty ridiculous. Her boyfriend was cute, but he had nothing on Lucas. Still, she spared him barely a glance before her eyes returned to her boyfriend. Brooke was like that once, so in love that she could barely process there were other people in the room, never mind check them out. And suddenly, she felt really, _really_ ill.

"Oh God," she groaned, stumbling off the stool and towards the back bathroom. He doesn't make a sound, but she knows he's following behind her. She can't feel much, but she can still feel his presence.

As she sits, hunched over the dingy toilet she normally would've go within forty feet of, she can feel his calloused fingers brushing against her neck as he gathers the loose strands of her long hair. Right now, his cover is that he's holding her hair back for her, but he's always had a bit of an obsession with her hair. Now, it's all he can do not to stare at it in class, watch the way the tiny lights form in it as she tilts her head at all different angles.

She can feel his fingers on her skin, but it doesn't tingle the way it once did. Even as he pulls her up from her position on the floor, wrapping her tightly in his arms, kissing her forehead and whispering apologies, she can't feel the heat she once did. Just his presence once sent tingles through her, his voice causing shivers. Now, she had all that, and she felt nothing. Nothing but skin and bones against her own, which is all she'd had in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3: Only the Names Change

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Chapter Three: Only the Names Change_

The ruby gloss slid across her pouting lips, the vibrant color a sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. Frowning at her reflection, she reached over and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, blotting carefully. Manipulating her face carefully, those lips twisted into a perky smile. She blew out an irritated breath before tossing the napkin, off-white with fresh red stains, into the trash bin. Walking past, it caught her eye for a second, before she continued walking. It looked like blood.

The hallway was noisy, as always. That was the great thing about school. Everyone was always talking, regardless of the rules. It was easy to fade into the background. Except, of course, if you were Brooke Davis. Then everyone looked at you, waiting with baited breath for your next move, so the rumor mills could keep turning. Unfortunately for her, that's exactly who she happened to be. Ignoring the stares of the resident freaks and geeks, she shot a playful smile at the captain of the football team and kept walking. Her heels were four inches high, but she didn't waver at all. Years of experience had taught her how to move, how to speak, how to be. Even now, her autopilot was as strong as the real thing, and so she captivated the student body the same as always, for no other reason than she was Brooke Davis, and that was what she did.

She slumped into her history class ten minutes late, if only because she could. Somehow, the loud blaring of the bell couldn't cut through the silence in her mind. It was eerie, almost, walking the halls with no one else around. Brooke had never really been alone before this year.

She paused outside the door for a brief moment, waiting to collect herself before she slouched in before the whole class's scrutiny. She smoothed her hair, smacked her lips together, straightened her top, and mentally ran through a list of things to do. As she walked into class, she would have to greet people. Send the teacher a cheeky smile and wink, Nathan warranted a full grin, maybe a half-smile in Tutor Girl's direction. Everyone else could see the patented Brooke Davis smirk. No, never mind. It didn't really matter anyway. Nobody looked carefully enough to distinguish as it was.

The eyes of everyone in the room were on her as she entered, and she sent them all the grin she'd spent her free period practicing. Most of them twittered, and turned away. There were two free seats in the entire classroom. Opposite sides of the room, equally unappealing, and two pairs of blue eyes stared questioningly at her. She opted for the closer one. The other set of eyes, once harboring a flicker of hope, was quickly extinguished. She rolled her own green eyes (did he really think she'd come to him?) then regretted it, just in case the rumors were true and she'd end up with crow's feet. She plopped down besides the Ravens mega-star, knowing that however well Lucas had been doing, Nathan would always retain that title.

"Hi," he whispered roughly, but she didn't turn towards him. In days past, particularly in the Golden Age of Nathan and Peyton, they'd been really close. Or at least, they'd partied together, hung out on weekends, sat together at lunch, chatted in the halls. That's as close as friends really came for her.

"Are you okay?" he persisted. Her eyes filled, involuntarily, at the question. Somehow, each and every person to ask her that managed to say the words with utmost concern. Even coming from insensitive super-jock Nathan Scott, the words managed to make it seem like the person uttering them gave a damn about what happened to her. Taking a deep breath, hoping it would conquer the massive lump forming in her throat, she turned towards him. Her eyes were no longer tearing. Far more like ice.

"Peachy. Now maybe we should stop talking, you can pay attention to class, and then you can stop your charity work with Tutor Girl so she'll help you stay on the team. I know how tedious it can be to pretend to like people," she answered with a smile that was anything but warm. "Tedious means hard, by the way."

She cringed slightly, regretting the words as soon as they slipped past her lips. She watched him carefully, observing the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. It was hard to miss the way his face had fallen, as shock took over. It was a very short list, if you wanted the names of people who stood up to him. She waited for him to yell, or throw something, because that was what Nathan did. The infamous Scott temper reared its ugly head at every opportunity with him. With a frown, she realized that she'd written him off the same way people did to her. Opening her mouth, this time to apologize, she was greeted with him holding up a large hand to stop her. He shifted his chair slightly, angling away from her. It was subtle, but she caught it, and was surprised when it stung. It appeared that he took her "advice" and was now raptly listening to the lecture.

Can't say he didn't try.

Brooke's not sure why it is, but she's still having some trouble adjusting to maneuvering the hallowed halls of Tree Hill High without her curly blonde sidekick. It was usually regular to see them joined at the hip, or the elbow, or the shoulder. Where Brooke was, Peyton was not far behind. She realizes this was her great mistake though, turning her back. It's a prime target for stabbing. She doesn't miss her, not even a little, so don't make that mistake.

Today, Bevin chatters away mindlessly, and Theresa hangs on her every word as if they're the meaning of life. At one point, she would've stifled her laughter, only losing it when she would look to her right and catch the miffed look on Peyton's face. This day is different, as the ones before it have been, and the ones after it will be. Another cheerleader, just as blonde as her former sidekick but at least eighteen times less interesting, is on her left, and she's not laughing. And so Brooke listens, letting the words bounce around in her head, mulling them over. It was all the same gossip, nothing new. All the same events, same parties, same places, same scandals. Only the names changed.

Brooke's never had an especially keen interest in gossip. As far as she was concerned, the people she didn't know could stay out of her business, and she would stay out of theirs. That was impossible, of course, given that she was _the_ Brooke Davis, but it was a nice thought. One day, she'd move somewhere that people respected each other and their privacy. She did hear that some deserted islands were for sale.

Her eyes have glazed over, and she's mildly surprised that no one can tell she's no longer paying attention. Then again, they never were the brightest crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a glint of bright yellow, bouncing slightly as a slender figure makes its way down the hall. Brooke let out a fake laugh, much louder than her usual ones. The blonde turns, her eyes sad, before quickly moving on her way. And the rest of the cheerleaders laugh along, for no other reason than she did it first.

Down the hall, she can see Tutor Girl retrieving books from her locker, _him_ leaning against it casually. His eyes are on her, as they usually are, and today she catches his gaze. Quirking a dark eyebrow in his direction, it's the most acknowledgement she's given him in days, and it would take a fool to miss the way his whole face lit up. Brooke Davis was no one's fool until he came along.

Wrenching her eyes from his, she examines the girl most fondly refer to as Hales. She may not know her personally, but she knows her as well as she knows anyone else in the school. The tutor used to wear sports bras and cotton tees and colorful plastic clips with pigtails, her hair stick straight. Today, her jeans are cut low, as is her shirt. Her hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders, and it's easy to see that her makeup usage has increased significantly. Instead of laughing at her, the way she would usually do, the new appearance strikes a nerve with Brooke. She wants to pull her aside and tell her that no boy is worth changing for, not even a little bit. Instead, Haley catches her eye, and gives her a sympathetic look. Brooke can literally feel herself steel then, never one to accept pity, and flings herself back into the conversation with her "friends".

Now they're gossiping about poor Bettina Sanchez. She was totally in love with her boyfriend, and thought he felt the same way. That is, until she caught him with her best friend. She slips away from the conversation yet again. She already knows this story, and only the names have changed.


	4. Chapter 4: Pain

Hey everybody. I know it's been a while, and I'm beyond sorry for that, but unforeseen circumstances got in the way. I may not have captured the flow of the story again yet, but I hope you don't hate this chapter too much.

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Chapter Four: Pain_

Her head hurts like hell, and her vision is blurry. She isn't exactly sure where she is, but it doesn't really matter. It doesn't feel any more or less like home than her own bed does. There's a hard wooden chair pressing against her at the strangest of angles, and she can feel the lace of her bra scratching against her skin. Brooke never slept with her bra on when she was in her own house. She'd always felt more comfortable without. There were two people in the entire world that knew that about her, and the fact wasn't lost on her in the moment.

She shook her head to clear the thoughts, regretting the movement deeply. Using her immaculately manicured hands to hold her head in place, she waited for the room to stop spinning. Deep brown strands of hair shielded her face. Brooke attempted to blow them out of the way, but they were matted, and wreaked of something awful. Disgusted, she whipped her head back, ignoring the way the blood pounded.

Stumbling off the stool, she noticed that her right heel was a good three inches higher than the left one. Laughing to herself, she wondered exactly how wasted she was that she could lose her shoe. Mentally, she pats herself on the back for finding it funny instead of pathetic.

"Okay Davis… let's get out of here," she murmured softly to herself, gently weaving her way through the bodies sprawled across the floor. A closer inspection of the place proved it to be a frat house she used to frequent. She and Peyton would come here whenever they felt like letting loose, back in the days of Hoes over Bros. Before _him_.

Before she can stop it, the room spins on her again. Bile rises in her throat as her mind conjures up images of his golden hair and his gorgeous smile. Sometimes in her flashbacks, she can see herself too, starry-eyed and mindless. She had to be, to miss what had been right in front of her. Their secret glances, the small smiles, all hints she should have seen from the very beginning. Stupid, stupid, stupid Brooke. And the next thing she knows, she's thrown up on someone's discarded pleather pants. Eyeing them distastefully, she wishes she could regret what she'd just done, but it was an honest improvement on the tacky things. They remind her of Peyton and Lucas. They appeared like they were genuine, but closer inspection would always prove it wrong.

"Hey Davis, where ya goin'?" someone slurs from a few feet back, and she swivels toward him, wavering slightly.

"Sorry boys, I've gotta get going. I've got, uh, class in a few hours," Brooke pasted the biggest, fakest smile she could muster across her face, her dimples growing to the size of coins. Inclining her chin the slightest bit, she could catch the breaking daylight with her bright green eyes, making them look sparkly and enticing. It was her age-old trick, the patented move that had men and boys alike falling at her feet. Only now, with her pounding headache, did she realize how much the act cost her.

"That's never stopped you before," another answered, with a grin that looked oddly threatening in the dim room. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she felt too naked in a shirt that was one of her more conservative. Their eyes seemed to burn through the fabric, exposing her. She felt dirty. She felt dizzy. She wanted out.

"C'mon David, stay with us," the first drawled, stepping towards her. She, in turn, stepped back. She looked around at faces she barely recognized, none of them wearing the happy, stupid smiles that came with peaceful rest. Instead, their faces were blank, and her mind went the same way, inadvertently swinging to Erica Marsh. The student body president, surprisingly unpopular given her looks, but unsurprising given her personality. She was so scared of the real world, she hid behind her desk and her grades. Brooke wished she'd told her then that there was nothing to be scared of. Nothing in the real world was real.

More specifically, she could remember how thrilled the girl was when a pack of stoners at a party had called her "Marsh". She took it as being accepted, something she'd longed for dearly. She was in the same situation now, a group of lazily attractive boys calling her by her last name and begging her to play with them. For the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just look her in the eye and call her "Brooke", with the softness that affection always added to words. She didn't miss the people in her life, just the tone they'd once used.

Or so she tried to tell herself.

Either way, the wild glint in Erica's eyes or the tipsy sway of her step distracted Brooke from the present, until she felt a clammy hand closing in on her upper arm. The stubble on his chin was prominent, more than a day old, but she found the scuff bizarrely appealing. The alcohol on his breath mingled with that on hers as he got in far closer than he should have.

"Come on Davis. Let's go hang out upstairs."

She could do it. She could do it easily. She could walk, or tip, as her condition would permit, upstairs after the alcoholic in training. She could fuck him, hard, in bed or up against a wall or in a shower. And then she could sober up and walk away like it didn't mean a thing. It didn't, not really. Yet clear blue eyes shot rays through her memory, and a soft voice whispering _Brooke_ echoed through her head. She wanted him to shut up, to go away, to get the hell out of her head. Instead, it returned, ever stronger. It refused to vanish. He refused to go away.

And that's how she ended up on the porch to his bedroom door. It creaks slightly under her shifting weight, little of it as there may be. His side of town was nothing like hers, and she remembered that that was exactly what she'd loved about it. Glancing around at the lush trees and the chipping paint, she tries to summon up the fondness she'd once felt. Instead, all she felt was the consuming emptiness she'd been living with for so long. She was so tired of it, of him and her and everything in between. Sometimes she thought it would just be easier to let it go and let everyone move on with their lives. Then she would think of _him_ and _her_ together, finding out through a lame cry-for-help webcam. She thought of the searing pain she'd felt in the spot where her heart should've been. And then she'd think of the way she'd felt ever since.

The door swung open, Lucas Scott emerging in his infamous gray hoodie, iPod headphones planted firmly in his ears. There was something so perfect about him in that moment that she could almost forget what he'd done. Then he blinked at her, surprise and awe registering in his features, and something dark began to grow inside her. It twisted and burned, suffocating the hope that had bubbled up. As if he could see the difference, which he always could, his shoulders slumped.

"Do you want to come inside?" he asked.

Wearily, she shook her head no.

Then she stepped inside anyway.

Lucas Scott decided in a split second that he would skip his morning run when a beautiful brunette showed up on his doorstep at five A.M. Granted, the brunette was both intoxicated, and his bitter ex-girlfriend, but in his mind, that was all the more reason to spend as much time around her as he could. Even when she was scowling at him, and shifting away from his touch, at least she was there.

He sat perched on his computer chair, eyeing her subtly, but she felt his stare. From beneath her cocoon of blankets, she faced him unblinkingly. He realized, with a pang, that the bedspread provided her with covering. It was armor, and it was what she needed to be around him. The heavy makeup she'd worn the night before had long since begun to run, leaving dark circles around her eyes. He was amused by the thought that she vaguely resembled a nocturnal creature, with her bright eyes and big black rings around them. She stared at his smirk, registering no change of emotion. There wasn't one to be found.

"What are you doing, Brooke?" Lucas sighed. The eyes he loved so dearly didn't change a bit. They had once been so vulnerable, so open.

"Lying down," she answered in the same smart-alecky voice she used whenever a teacher asked her a question, or if she were on the phone with her parents. The latter was an occasion that proved few and far between as the mystery that was Brooke Davis deepened. Now, he had loved and lost the head cheerleader, and still felt like he didn't know a damn thing where she was concerned. Where did she go when she wasn't at school or a party? What did she watch late at night? Where was she, who was she with? Did she ever miss her parents?

Did she ever miss him?

"I mean what are you doing _here_?"

Both their eyes widen at the question. It was one that had hung in the air for weeks, but neither could bring themselves to contemplate. Her pale, almost bloodless, lips parted over and over again, but she couldn't bring the words to form.

"I don't know," she stuttered, and he could feel her withdrawing into herself. It was so obvious, the awkwardness hanging between them, the discomfort radiating from both sides.

"I think you do," he tried another tack, a cockier one.

"Do you?" her thin, dark eyebrow rose in challenge. She was damn interested in hearing what he had to say about it, because she herself had no idea what propelled her towards the little house so far from her own.

"You love me," he nodded decisively. Instead of making her laugh, or scowl, it had a reverse reaction. He had wanted to spark some sort of reaction from her. He wanted anything but the deadness he could see lingering behind her green eyes.

"Between the lying, the cheating, the dishonesty, and the betrayal, there sure is a whole lot to love," she answered with a grim smile. She began to rise, slowly and gracefully and evenly, from the bed.

"I love _you_," he called over to her, desperation evident in his tone. His words stopped her in her tracks, but she didn't look at him, just stared at the door.

"You know when a really good time to show that would've been? _Before_ you fucked my best friend!" she screeched in his direction, feeling emotion well within her chest. It was hot and fierce, welcome in the empty void.

"I didn't sleep with Peyton," Lucas shook his head sadly.

"You didn't _sleep with_ anybody, Lucas. Fucked her, fucked me, fucked Nikki. You fucked us all over Lucas. Now you can just continue your marvelous streak and go fuck _yourself_," she snarled. Her skin paled, her nostrils flared, her skin crawled. She couldn't be around him, not anymore, not right now. Without looking back once, she across the room, flinging the door open with a tremendous rage.

She felt anger.

She felt pain.

She felt alive.


	5. Chapter 5: Like Lovers

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Chapter Five: Like Lovers_

He kisses her like lovers do.

In her seventeen years, Brooke Davis had discovered that there were a million ways to kiss or be kissed. It mostly had to do with the intention behind the meeting of two lips. She'd never really cared much for the make up of the action, so much as the reaction. She can always tell the difference though.

With the boys at school, or at bars, it's hard and fast. Always. It's the way she's come to enjoy it, fast and furious and mindless. If they drew blood, even better. There was something about the taste of it, metallic and thick, that made it so clear that in that moment, she was alive.

Every once in a while, she'd come across something different though. It could just be a lighter brush, or a lack of scraping teeth, but she could sense it right away. Some boys meant to claim her. It wasn't that they wanted her for their girlfriend, God no. But it was just the thought of leaving _Brooke Davis_ begging for more that had boys all tied up in knots. They would never get the satisfaction though.

Some people kissed for meaning. People like Lucas Scott, and Haley James, people she had never wanted anything to do with. They were still naïve enough to think that the world had good in it, just waiting for them. They tried to convey meaning with their lips, something deeper than what they could say.

Some, people Brooke were more comfortable with, kissed for fun, or for escape. These were people like Peyton Sawyer and Nathan Scott, and most of the teens at school. They hooked up because they were drunk or just looking for a good time, barely remembering it the next morning, and meaning nothing by it if they did. Or, in many cases, it was an escape from the home-drama that threatened to drown them both.

Brooke wasn't like any of them. Brooke Davis didn't kiss because she was in love, or lust, or she cared deeply, or she wanted fun, or in retaliation for anything her parents did or didn't do for her. She was just so fucking bored. For her, sex wasn't about expression, or even power, and it most certainly wasn't to "get away". It was because she had nothing better to do with her time. If General Hospital hadn't taken a nosedive, she'd be watching that instead.

So earlier today, in the janitor's closet, Jeremy Something-or-Other kissed her the way she expected to be. It was almost vicious, really, causing her lipstick to smear far beyond their designated lines. She didn't really care though, because it was all over him as well. The difference is, he'd wear it like a badge of honor, while she'd promptly use a dab of her trusty makeup remover, then head off to Computer Applications. She would look perfect and unruffled as always, because she was Brooke fucking Davis, and in everyone's mind but her own, nothing could touch her.

But this kiss, this one right now, it was different. She swore she'd never do this sort of different again, but people had been breaking promises to her all her life, more now then ever, so why hold herself to standards no one else bothered with? Still, the stubble from Lucas's chin is awakening the part of her brain that she'd been trying so hard to silence.

When Lucas kissed her, he caressed her cheek subconsciously, from the bone all the way down her jaw, until her cupped her chin within the palm of his large hand. It was slow and passionate. He's doing that again, and Brooke's not sure where to store that. In the back of her mind, she wonders what the hell the big deal is about one more time. They were still done, and he was still scum, and she was still empty.

But that's the thing… lately, she hasn't felt quite the same way. Brooke is angry and lonely, and maybe a little scared, but she doesn't feel as hollow as she used to, and it becomes just another bit of information that she isn't sure how to store. She just knows that she's not broken; all her parts are in working order, even if she can't seem to reassemble.

That's why she pushes him away. Her long, thin fingers trailed across his chest the way they have so many times before, but instead of clutching at him, they balled up and shoved him away. They stared at each other for a moment, something foreign swirling between them. Blue met green, and neither seemed willing to let the other win their staring contest. Lucas looked away first, and the chuckle she let out was cold.

"I should've known. You're always the first to give up," she sneered, and she didn't look like his Brooke anymore. The bags under her eyes, covered with the finest makeup money could buy and concealed so she looked as perfect as always, were visible only to him, someone who'd spent endless hours studying her. She looked tired without the happy sparkle in her eyes, and he could only blame himself. It was slowly starting to eat away at him, and Lucas wondered if that was his punishment. He had to remind himself daily that this was his fault; he had no right to feel sorry for himself, that she wasn't his Brooke anymore, and she never really was, he'd made sure of that, so stop referring to her as such. Still, he couldn't stay away from her, and he was wondering who it was hurting more.

"I'm walking away from you," Brooke said as she turned, and if anyone were around, they would say that was fairly obvious. Still, the words were like a knife, carefully slicing through Lucas's heart. She wasn't walking away from the argument, or the kiss. She was walking away from _him_, and all he could do was pray she'd look back.

Flipping open her phone, Brooke carefully scrolled through her phonebook, until she found the name she'd been looking for. She needed something to distract her, something to pass her time. She'd been asked out on a lot of dates lately. It was about damn time she said yes to someone.

* * *

_I'm sorry this was rather short, but I haven't updated in a bit and thought I'd get back to it. It's a very important chapter, given what's coming, so I knew I needed to toss it out here. The lovely Amanda has assured me that it doesn't suck, so if it does, I'm sorry, LOL. _

_x Sam_


	6. Chapter 6: Date

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Chapter Six: Date_

Brooke Davis has never really been one for dating.

Her very first date was awkward and awful. His name was Todd Meyers, and he was the alpha male of their fifth grade class. He had sandy blonde hair that was just long enough to fall in his light green eyes. He had tan skin year-round, and already had the faintest trace of abs, from what she could tell, when his shirt would lift during gym. He was the cutest of boys, and she swore she was already a little bit in love with him. They were going to live in New York City, because she was going to be an Academy Award winning actress and he was going to be the quarterback for… whoever. They would have two green-eyed children, named Peyton and Nathan, after her two best friends, and then they'd live happily ever after.

For their date, they went to a little place on the main road, walking distance from both their houses. She'd had salad and a Pepsi, because she just didn't really like anything else. He'd had pizza and ordered a coke. She frowned at that. Pepsi and Coca-Cola were rival brands. Surely this didn't bode well for their perfect Manhattan socialite futures.

There wasn't much chatter at the table as they'd ate. She told him about how she and Peyton rode bikes to the mall on Tuesday. He said that he'd played ball with his brothers. The noises of them chewing seemed to be magnified times a thousand. Brooke ground the leaves of her salad up finely between her back teeth. Pinball machines whirred in the background, and she thought about who played pinball anymore instead of talking to Todd.

Needless to say, there was no follow up date.

Even the uncomfortable fumbling at her front door didn't serve to hold her interest. Brooke's first kiss wasn't under the light of her front porch, the crickets chirping in the distance. In any movie, the girl's mother would've been fluttering nervously by the front window, pretending she wasn't watching. Brooke's mother was in Aruba, or Ireland, or India. She'd lost track, and lost interest in that as well. It was better off that her parents weren't home. It meant that she got to walk around the house in her underwear, or turn the television up loud, or stay up as late as she wanted. Or, at least, that's what she told herself when she looked to the cliché window and found it empty.

She'd first been kissed in fourth grade. Brooke had been at a party with the middle school kids, fighting her nerves all night. Only four of the younger kids had been invited. She hadn't wanted to play Seven Minutes in Heaven, not really, but how could she resist when the most popular girls were all treating her like she was one of them? So instead, she combed her straight brown locks out with her fingers, smoothed her skirt, stood up straight, and marched confidently into the designated closet. It wasn't until the lock had clicked that she realized what she'd condemned herself to.

"Oh thank God it's you," a prepubescent but definitely masculine voice called from the corner, its owner breathing a sigh of relief.

"Nathan?" she squinted into the darkness, trying not to smear the eye makeup her new friends had lathed onto her face. It made her eyelids feel heavier than normal. They were sinking under the weight of kohl liner and colorful eye shadow, much more than she'd ever worn before.

She'd get used to it soon enough.

"Yeah, hey Brooke," he shifted nervously from side to side. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see his light blue orbs glowing, whether from nerves or excitement, she wasn't sure. He was wearing a light blue polo and dark, loose jeans. She thought the image would be forever burned into her memory. It was, but she would never admit it. She had all sorts of memories stored away that she would never allow resurfacing.

"Alrighty then. I thought I saw you here before, but I didn't get a chance to come and say hi," she babbled nervously, the seeds of a long-standing habit being planted. Her little fingers played along the edges of her frayed miniskirt. Her maid had cast a disapproving glance at her outfit before handing her over to the chauffeur, muttering something about it being "far too old" for Miss Brooke. The brunette had ignored her and hopped into the car anyway.

"Yeah, haven't been here for too long. I saw you a little while ago. You look really pretty, Brooke," his eyes trailed along her, lingering for longest on her face. Even now, Brooke could remember thanking God it was dark in the room, still feel the prickly blush that spread across her entire, undeveloped body at his compliment. Nathan Scott was one of her best friends, and had been a steady fixture in her life for as long as she could remember, with his dark hair and clear blue eyes, and the fact that he'd always stood nearly a foot taller than her. Their parents were friends, so it seemed they had literally been joined since birth. Even at their tender age, the whispers about Nathan Scott had started.

For every super-perfect alpha male, there's the gorgeous badass who's just a bit more appealing.

"I'm glad it's you in here," he reached out and grabbed her hand from where it had been fiddling with her skirt, and laced her fingers with his, tugging her closer to him.

"Nate, I just want to tell you that I've… uh… never… well, you know, I haven't…" she gestured between the two of them rapidly, waving her stick-thin arm wildly.

"Me neither," he assured her, a tiny smirk curling his lips. Just looking at it made her feel sort of funny. She'd always known that Nathan was good looking, in the way that simple facts are understood by small children. The sky is blue, mommy and daddy will be away for a while, Peyton's her best friend, don't eat crayons, Nathan's good looking. It was very simple, really, but in the darkened closet, it seemed to have a different effect on young Brooke. She'd seen "the smirk" a million times already, but this was the first time she'd ever wanted to touch it. And then suddenly it was coming closer… and closer… and her eyelids, so heavy, drifted shut of their own accord…

"I like you, Brookie."

She heard the words whispered and felt a cool rush pulsing through her veins. And then she finally touched that smirk as Nathan Scott's lips touched hers, the first to do so, but certainly not the last.

That was the first time that a boy within reach had ever replaced Brad Pitt as her future husband. Brooke Scott didn't have a bad ring to it, not at all, and she could most certainly get used to the goosebumps that emerged whenever the brown haired boy touched her. So she'd gotten two cookies off the table in the kitchen, using her big green eyes to subtly scan the living room for Nathan. And oh yes, did she find him. She caught sight of his light blue polo in the corner, awfully close to the golden blonde curls of her best friend. Zeroing in, she could see Nathan's fingers joined with Peyton's, so much like hers had been less than an hour before. Tossing the snack she'd gotten for him to the ground, she whirled around to shoot a giant smile at the eighth grader behind her. He promptly asked her to dance.

That's the way the cookie crumbled.

Slamming her lipstick down, harder than she'd intended, she glared at her reflection. What an idiot she had been. Now, years later, new brother, same story. She's not sure why she didn't quite grasp right around then that Peyton Sawyer would prove to be a God awful friend. Stupid Peyton, with her blonde curls and her hazel eyes and her flawless skin. She listened to mopey music and wore grungy t-shirts and pushed away anyone who tried to get close to her. So why was she able to keep stealing what Brooke really wanted?

And why did Brooke miss her so much anyway?

Not that any of that was the point. The point was that Brooke hated the hesitance of actual dates, and the pressure to keep the other person happy and entertained. She'd much rather do the random hook up thing. If you find someone at a party, you have no obligations to them. You don't even need to worry about if they enjoy the excursion, because chances are, they'll be too wasted to remember it the next day anyway. Brooke liked it though.

She liked the feel of bedroom or bathroom walls against her back, and hard muscle between her thighs. She loved the taste that accompanied the boys, mints and booze and sometimes weed, maybe a hint of the girl they'd been with earlier that night. She loved the slightest hints of stubble that would graze her much softer skin. And most of all, she loved walking away from them when she was done.

Even so, she would try something different on this night, just to prove that she could. It was time to prove to everyone that she moved on. She didn't need Lucas, she didn't need Peyton, and she sure as hell didn't need the pitying glances she was receiving in the hallway. Setting aside past experience, she'd dialed up the captain of the football team, and judging by the honk that had just sounded through the quiet street, he'd just arrived.

Brooke Davis was never really one for dating, but she wasn't one for losing either.

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_Well... there it is, lol. I've had this chapter done for a few days, but I've been trying to tweak it a bit. I'm actually an itty bit fond of this chapter, for some reason. Please review and let me know what you think. Thank you for reading..._

_x Sam_


	7. Chapter 7: Night

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Seven: Night _

Some people are morning people.

Brooke Davis hasn't encountered many of them. Being in high school, most teens generally weren't thrilled to be up at such an early hour. The brunette herself barely slid into her seat at 7:55, the latest possible moment to avoid detention. While her pearly, even teeth were always on display with a cheery smile, it never quite erased the dull sleepiness in her eyes. Not everyone was like this, naturally. There were the rare few, people like Haley James and Erica Marsh, who were just as pleasant at eight A.M. as they were at four P.M.

Brooke was not one of them.

For her, it was unnatural to even think about sleeping until the sun had begun to make itself known in the sky. Three o'clock was her usual bedtime, at which point she'd cocoon herself in Egyptian cotton sheets and wait for her alarm to go off. She'd roll out of bed four hours later to transform into the vision that everyone expected her to be: cheeky smiles and winks and low cut shirts and kitten heels. Brooke didn't sleep much these days, and she dreamt even less.

All through her date, exhaustion had plucked at her. Her eyelids subtly drooped, the sparkle making her appear alert when she was anything but. Her blurred vision cast halos around the lights, reminding her forcibly of blonde hair. She'd take another sip of her Pepsi then, wishing someone had had the common sense to spike it, and pretend to pay more attention.

From what she could tell, she'd made a great choice for her reentrance to the dating scene. Kevin was athletic, that was for sure. She could see even through the protection of his t-shirt that he was build, much more so than Lucas. His eyes were a color she couldn't place, grayer than Lucas's, but darker. And this is where the problem comes in. Every fucking thing in the fucking place reminds her of Lucas fucking Scott.

"Brooke? You ready to go, babe?" he laughed a little from across the table. Kevin was already standing up, his letterman jacket hanging from his broad frame. His keys jingled between his thick fingers. They were kind of pudgy. It wasn't even so much that they were long, but a little broad. His nails were clean and even, perfectly shaped. She wondered if he was metro. That might explain a lot. His hair was perfectly gelled into place. It could probably withstand hurricane force winds. Very useful for living on the coast. Brooke snapped out of her daze long enough to nod her head yes, snatching up her purse and following him out to his truck.

She'd never developed a fondness for leather. You'd think she would, given the amount of time she'd been spending in back seats lately. Still, it irked her, the way it stuck to her skin. There really wasn't enough room back there anyway, as was evidenced by how jammed her left leg currently felt. Would she even be able to walk later? Was he cutting off her circulation? Maybe him being beefed up wasn't the greatest of things if they were going to roll around in his car. Rolling her eyes, she knew that it was time to head on in when her thoughts had wandered so far from his mouth on her skin.

He left her standing on the curb. She kept an apologetic smile on her face until she saw his truck round the corner, knowing he'd be watching from his rearview mirror. Brooke's face dropped as the red lights disappeared from view. Pretending was exhausting, and she'd had about all she could take for today.

She bobbed on the corner for a moment, her expensive heels clicking against the pavement. She knew she shouldn't walk, not in those heels. To hell with it, it wasn't her money anyway. Brooke slowly made her way down her street, avoiding the lanterns for no particular reason. She walked through a patch of meticulously mowed grass and wished she felt worse about it. She knew for a fact that someone came to check on this lawn every day to keep it so perfect. Instead, she just wondered why anyone cared that much about their damn grass. It was just going to die anyway. They were all going to die, so who the hell cares?

She found herself at the park. It was the only park on the wealthier side of town, more for decoration than for a particular purpose. It was a place for the parents to mingle with their rich neighbors without having to resort to something as common as calling on them, as their children played unnoticed in the background. She used to come here a lot, and she never really understood why. She had her own swing set in the backyard. She never played on the monkey bars. Once she'd seen a sixth grader fall and fracture their wrist. She'd never wanted to hurt in that way, so she mainly steered clear.

The left swing was hers. She'd claimed it so many years ago. Peyton Sawyer was her "right hand girl", so it only figured that she'd have the swing to the right of her. The left swing was the one that had a little patch of dirt directly under it, the wood chips worn away from too many frantic stops. Her little white sneakers would always come away a little bit dirtier, but she never gave up her spot. By the time she'd stopped wearing sneakers for anything other than cheerleading, she'd outgrown the park where she'd spent her youth.

The chain creaked. It instilled the slightest fear that at any point, you were going to go flying off. She wasn't so worried about it anymore. Some things you just get used to. As she clutched the iron and kicked higher though, all she could sense were eyes that were bluer than gray, and nails that always had a bit of grease under them from working with cars, and soft hair that flew all over. The squeaking of the chain brought her back, and she slowed to a stop. The toes of her shoes scooped up dirt from the tiny hole, and she wondered, secretly but not for the first time, why things never worked out quite as well for her.

There was no one around, to her knowledge, as she climbed off her swing. She brushed her hands against the tight denim of her jeans, peering around cautiously. Brooke's eyes scanned the playground, coming to rest on her childhood nemesis—the monkey bars. Her eyes flashed, sending a glare towards the metal that could cause grown men to burst into tears.

"Whoa Brooke, what did they ever do to you?"

Oh, you have no idea.

She knew his voice well, had been acquainted with its owner for all of her life. For a second, as she spun, she didn't really take in her surroundings, the darkness just a color shifting blur. Instead, she could see him young, in a room just as dark as the park. Nathan Scott was standing five feet from her, a basketball under his arm as he swiped his hand across his face. She was having trouble shaking the image of him much closer, in a light blue polo, the face much younger.

"Nathan," she nodded, letting out a shaky breath. She inched back towards the swing set, looking oddly like someone who'd been caught in the act.

His brown furrowed in confusion as he watched her. He switched arms, bouncing the ball in front of him. Stupid ball. What was so great about a basketball anyway? Basketball players were worshipped because… they could put a ball through a net. They could sweat profusely as they ran down a court. So what, if they had absolutely delicious looking muscles? Does that give them the right to walk all over people?

Brooke was caught up in her pondering, but not to the point where she missed that familiar squeak. Her eyes snapped onto the boy so much larger than her, who had taken a place on the swings. The left swing.

"You're on my swing," she said curtly, hands on hips as she waited for him to get up. He stared blankly back at her.

"_Your _swing?"

"Yes. My swing. Now get up," she hissed impatiently.

"Brooke, what's the big deal? Just use the other swing?" he nodded in the direction of the right swing. The swing without the dirt.

"Oh, easy for you to say! You don't even think when you go from swing to swing, and you don't even think about the swing you left behind. You don't even think about the feelings that get hurt. Wanna know why? Because you're an ass!"

"I think you're being a little bit sensitive about the swings."

His eyes were even bluer than Lucas's. Observing the boy who'd stolen her swing, who'd wasted her cookie, who'd chosen her best friend, she noticed how truly good looking he was. He had dark and classic features, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nice tan, dark hair that didn't go all wacky. He used minimal amounts of gel, unlike Hurricane Proof Kevin. As far as bodies, there wasn't even a competition. Nathan was way hotter than Lucas. Why they hell couldn't they have had the love triangle from hell over him instead? At least he was funny most of the time. Oh right…

"I'm not being too sensitive over the swing! You didn't want that swing when we were in fourth grade, and _now_ you want it! No, too late buddy, there has been way too many things that happened to that damn swing. You can just sit on the right swing, because everybody likes that one better anyway."

"Uh, Brooke… are you okay?" he scratched self-consciously at the back of his neck, watching her warily. "I know we haven't been close in a while, but I heard about what happened, and Hales and I thought—"

"You and _Hales_ thought what?" Brooke sneered. "You both like the right swing better anyway!"

"Brooke, stop talking about swings."

"No, I will not stop talking about swings! That swing ruined my life! No, you know what… YOU ruined my life," she whirled around, realization dawning upon her face.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You ruined my life! You did all this! This is so your fault!" she charged forward, slapping his shoulder. She doubted he even felt it, but that didn't stop her from feeling his disbelieving glare. "If you would've just picked me over Peyton in fourth grade, at that middle school party, then I never would've gone out with Lucas!"

"Brooke…"

"No, listen, I'm right. I'm not a backstabbing whore like some people," she glared over at the right swing for emphasis. "So I never would've done the whole 'longing from afar' thing for your bastard brother! We wouldn't have ever interacted with the asshole at all! This is all your fault," she pinched him for emphasis on the last few words.

"Stop hitting me!" he moved the swing just out of her reach. His expression was half-laughter, half-confusion, maybe a good part annoyance. Brooke could see the wheels turning behind Nathan's clear blue eyes, and it made her just a little bit angrier. "You're pissed over something that happened in fourth grade?"

"I'm pissed that you ruined my fucking life," she nodded affirmatively.

"Uh, I'm going to go, because I think every time I've spoken to you lately, you're just a little bit more psycho."

She watched him move away, bouncing that stupid ball, towards the direction where his house was. Sighing heavily, Brooke replayed the last few minutes in her head. _Idiot_.

"Nathan, wait!" she called out. He waved a large hand in her direction and kept on walking.

Briefly, she wondered how long she could go alienating everyone that tried to speak to her. It was late, that much she could tell just from looking around. She didn't know how long she'd been there, but she wasn't tired yet. The chill of the night air kept her awake. She wrapped her jacket a little tighter around herself. The only sounds now were that of a basketball on pavement, getting fainter and fainter. Finally, she was completely alone, but it didn't feel new at all.

Taking a tentative step towards the monkey bars, she tried to rub warmth into her hands. The painted metal seemed to smirk at her, watching haughtily as she attempted to psyche herself up. Brooke gingerly placed a few fingers on the bar, hoisting herself up onto the first rung. Her grip slipped almost immediately, and she could feel the paint shifting under her fingers. She muttered a few swears at the playground pastime.

"Talking to yourself?" a hesitant voice called out to her, through the space she'd thought only she had occupied. It started Brooke, her fingers going rigid as she lost her balance and fell. She tottered on her heels, barely standing, but managing it if only to save her pride. There was no way in hell Brooke Davis was falling on her face. Not again, not literally.

"It's nice to have someone to talk to without worrying they're about to stab you in the back," she swung her glossy hair over her shoulder, taking the opportunity to observe her former best friend. Her hair was blonde as ever, but it seemed longer. That almost made her laugh. It had been way too short a time period for this kind of nostalgia. Her collarbone looked more pronounced. Bitch was even skinner than usual. Her eyes looked haunted and desperately sad, but Brooke willed herself not to see that. It wasn't that hard, not really. Not when what she really saw was a vision from a webcam.

"Brooke," Peyton sighed. "I wish you would let me explain, it's really not—"

"Not what? Not what I think?" the brunette let out a bitter laugh, more like a bark than anything. "Not what it looked like? Go ahead Peyton, you're obviously a master of deception, you certainly were good at pretending you weren't a backstabbing slut. Go ahead. I'm waiting. Let's hear it."

Brooke was steeling against Peyton, right there on the playground where they'd spent so much time together, and they could both feel it. Her eyes glittered harshly, not with laughter or tears, but with the bitter malice they both knew the blonde deserved. Peyton sighed, the wind devastating her curls, and Brooke smiled at that. It had no feeling behind it, a simple curving of the lips that gloss had long since worn off.

"I saw you here and thought you might want a ride home. I know you hate walking," Peyton's whisper was carried by the wind directly to Brooke's ears. It enraged her. How dare she presume to tell her what she did and didn't like? She was the worst friend in history, she had no right to even be speaking to her, never mind acting like she knew her so well. If Peyton was as knowledgeable on the subject of Brooke as she thought she was, a whole lot of things would be different now. Namely, they'd still be speaking.

"Not as much as I hate you," Brooke said lowly, her voice calm and icy. She could literally see as her words made their impact, the girl she'd loved like her sister for so many years flinching, tears springing to her eyes. The brunette didn't bother waiting for a rebuttal. She'd had about enough reminiscing for one day, too much talk with too many people she could link to her own downfall. She turned her back on Peyton, and didn't stop walking until she was inside her own house, curled up on her own bed. It was only when she looked down and saw her hands, a mess of blisters and dirt and old yellow paint flecks, that she noticed she was crying.

Maybe she wasn't such a night person either.


	8. Chapter 8: Bleed

Heh. Bet you guys didn't expect this one. I'll be straight with you—fandom is not where my head's been lately. I don't even watch OTH with any sort of regularity anymore and I'm completely obsessed with this original project my friend and I have been working on. But I still do love the OTH characters (how I interpret them, anyway. Which is mangled and angsty.) and I always loved the fandom better than the writers. This chapter is not perfect by any means but I want to start writing again because leaving all of my stories unfinished doesn't do them justice and it's unfair to the readers who stood by me. It's shortchanging everybody involved. This is me getting on the path to making things right.

* * *

**Pathetically Poetic**

_Eight: Bleed_

Brooke Davis did not believe that the sun rose. She spent enough vacant hours staring at the sky to know that at dawn, a ball of fire did not simply rise and kill the darkness. The sun bled in the morning. It bled through the night and gradually erased it.

Some nights Brooke did not sleep at all. She did not necessarily drink either. She could sit at her window and make her body as numb as her mind and watch the sky until the sun came to spoil a perfectly good darkness. At seven, her alarm clock would go off and she would dutifully ready herself for a day at school. Eyeliner was her war paint, lip gloss her shield.

It was a Tuesday morning and the alarm clock woke Brooke up for the first time in weeks. She was almost surprised to find that she had slept. It was refreshing, she mused, to wake up from sleep instead of mere unconsciousness. She thought that maybe she would curl her hair, but it reminded her too much of _her_, and opted for stick straight as always. It was so perfect that it almost looked sharp.

The first person she encountered in the hallway was Nathan Scott. Instinct told her to smirk at him in a friendly-but-suggestive fashion, but then she remembered the last time she had spoken to him. _Brooke Davis_ did not blush, but Brooke nearly did. Nathan stared at her cautiously as he passed and she sighed as she pushed him through an open door that led to the library. To watch Nathan Scott pass her as if they had never been friends was brutal. She had already lost so much; she was too sober to watch even the trivial slip away.

"Are you going to hit me?" he asked. She understood why that would be a genuine concern. She knew that everything she had been doing lately would look crazy to someone like him, because Nathan Scott had no idea what it was like to walk around with his failing heart outside of his chest.

"I'm sorry," she huffed, then continued off his confused stare, "for what I said to you the other night."

"Oh, that? I figured you were just wasted."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're _always_ wasted," Nate answered, as if it were obvious to everyone except her. As if it was like everything else. It was.

"You know what? I'm not that sorry," Brooke hissed, spinning on her heel with the intention of leaving the room. His large hand on her upper arm stopped her and she winced. Nathan inhaled sharply as he looked at her porcelain skin. She knew what he would find there.

"Who the hell did this to you?" he asked, fingers hovering over the mottled skin. Purple-green bruises had been appearing on her skin. Brooke had no idea how to answer his question—she did not remember where she had acquired them, or who, or how. She did not remember much of the last few weeks. The days all bled together, one giant party and sob and stumble and sunrise.

"No one," Brooke sneered. "I probably just walked into something."

"Probably? You can't remember, can you? Fucking typical, Brooke."

"I brought you in here to apologize for acting like a bitch the other day. Don't make me regret it, Nate."

"I didn't hear an apology. And I don't see my friend Brooke. I see some drunken whore who has no idea what she's doing."

"What the fuck, Nate? Stop being such an asshole. Just say its okay."

"It's not okay, Brooke," Nathan said slowly, his dark head shaking in what she presumed was his newfound sage wisdom. He had been spouting it all over lately. "You shouldn't be wrecking yourself over a guy who didn't love you in the first place."

It was not like being punched in the stomach. The squeeze began in her lungs. Imagining it as a thick red ribbon, it tightened beyond a bow and slowly cut off her air supply. Tears did not spring to her eyes, but slowly became a blinding film. Her throat burned. She thought maybe her heart stopped at his truth but it continued pumping acid.

"I'm sor—"

"Where was all that logic when you were in the hospital a few weeks ago, Natey? Who were the drugs really for? It's an awful lot to do for a guy who didn't love you in the first place," she intoned mockingly, a hard lump of satisfaction spackling the hole in the heart as she watched his eyes go flinty.

"Some apology," he scoffed. "Don't bring my dad into this."

"This is all about your dad," Brooke rolled her eyes and stormed out of the classroom, riding the wave of her indignation. She breezed past Haley James, whose concerned doe eyes attempted to crack her as she paused in her obvious search for her boyfriend. How nice it was that someone could spend their entire life being a heartless jackass and a sweet, naïve tutor could come and fix up their ramshackle soul.

She gave them three months.

Her hands shook as she fumbled for her keys and strutted through the parking lot. Brooke Davis had an excellent game face but she was not in the mood to deal with the pointlessness of her life. The voice in her head that kept her entertained—the one that mocked every component of Tree Hill High—was terribly silent. All she could hear was Nathan Scott.

_Drunken whore_.

_Wrecking yourself_.

_Didn't love you in the first place_.

Lucas Scott's truck was parked exactly four spots to the left and one row behind her VW Bug. The sunlight hit his hair the way it always did and he squinted hopefully in her direction. This was part of the routine, the same old song-and-dance they had fallen into. A sophomore Brooke remembered the face but not the name of stood nervously but curiously by. She stared at her as if nervous of what she would do next and wondering how long it would take to spread the word to all of her friends.

Nathan might have been wrong about Lucas—who could ever be on a guilt trip so thorough they continued to follow around the girl they _didn't_ love for weeks afterward? Who would give up their 'dream girl' for someone they didn't care about at least a little bit?—but he was right about her.

But he wasn't going to be anymore. She threw her car in reverse and didn't look back once. Brooke Davis was not going to bleed anymore.


End file.
